


And One Time Hutch Went To Sleep

by Curlew



Series: Shhh....Hutch is sleeping.... [2]
Category: Starsky and Hutch - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:35:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25922941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curlew/pseuds/Curlew
Summary: Another completely plotless, droopy sick Hutch snippet, linked to my story Two Times Hutch Woke Up - this time maybe with a nod to slash to come. There are references to two poems. I’ll link to them at the end.
Series: Shhh....Hutch is sleeping.... [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1881331
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	And One Time Hutch Went To Sleep

Starsky glanced at his watch as he made his way down the corridor toward Hutch’s room. 4.30. Well, that was nearly 6 in anybody’s money. Surely they wouldn’t throw him out- with a bit of luck nobody would even see him. if he just walked confidently past the nurse’s station....

‘Good afternoon, Sargent Starsky! You’re a little late, Dr Broadhurst said you’d be here at 4”

Starsky gave her his best guileless grin.

‘I’ve been made! Is it OK? Is Jace around?”

“He said you’d ask that, and I was to tell you that he’s gone home because - what was it? Oh yes - he doesn’t need to consult a physician qualified in looking after people too stupid to look after themselves”

Starsky laughed.

“Can I go in?”

“Yes. He’s had a very rough afternoon - he could use some love. Oh, don’t worry, he’s doing fine. He just had a bad reaction to the antibody treatment. It happens”

Hutch was lying, propped up on pillows and so still and white that Starsky’s heart lurched in a brief moment of panic, before the blue eyes opened a fraction, then widened into an almost smile on seeing him. 

“Hey”

“Hey, yourself”

Starsky’s hand gentled through Hutch’s hair, then rested on his cheek, noting the cool skin with a silent exhale of relief. No fever. But so very pale and somehow looking even thinner than he had that morning.

“Ah, buddy-you got your IVs back. That sucks”

“Yeah” His voice was a husky thread “Been throwing up. A lot”

“I heard” He knew enough about hospitals to know what “a very rough afternoon” meant. 

“I’m tired, Starsk. So tired”

“I know you are. Can’t you sleep?”

“No. Keep on nearly getting there....

‘Shall I ask them to give you something?”

“No. I’ll just wake up feeling even worse”

“What can I do for you?”

“I don’t know. Make this week go away. Jace says I should feel better in a few days”

“Wish I could”

“I’m sorry. You didn’t come here to listen to me be cranky”

“I kinda did, actually. And to bring you stuff you’re mostly not up to. Books, and your cassette player and some cassettes- I brought that new John Denver special you haven’t opened yet- I’ll put them in your nightstand. Edith sent you some new pyjamas. Oh, and another get well card from Rosie. I think that makes eleven”

That raised another faint smile, Starsky notice with satisfaction, as he shoved Edith’s Tupperwares back in his bag to leave in the nurse’s icebox for later.

Hutch’s eyes slid closed again, and Starsky pulled up the comfortable chair that had mysteriously - he suspected Jace had been involved- appeared beside the bed, and settled in for the duration.

“Starsk?”

“Yeah”

“What books did you bring?”

Starsky leaned precariously over the arm of the chair and retrieved the handful of books.

“The next one from the guy who wrote Carrie, remember, we liked that? it’s called Salem’s Lot. The Robert Ludlum you’re halfway through. A book of pictures of trees. A biography of Marvin Gaye. And a book of poems”

“Can you read me some poems?”

Starsky wanted to say that he would go to the ends of the earth and slay a dragon for Hutch, but he hadn’t read aloud since 6th grade and wasn’t starting now. But then he looked at his white, frail partner, wished he believed in a god he could thank for giving him back and let the book fall onto his lap. It opened on a poem about riding a horse in the snow, and he was so charmed by how appropriate it was for a Minnesotan farm boy that he forgot to be self conscious. He read on steadily, half an eye on Hutch’s face as it infinitesimally relaxed under the soothing flow of words. A nurse came quietly in, changed the IV bag and smiled approvingly, before putting her finger to her lips and creeping out. Starsky was about to start reading again, when Hutch’s voice, blurry with sleep, said

“When I was being sick, I wanted to ask them to call you”

“You should have done, babe. I‘d’ve been here in a heartbeat”

“I know. But I didn’t know what they’d think” his voice trailed off, then came back “Didn’t want anyone but you. Never did. Never do. Never will. Just you. Been wanting to tell you....” This time sleep properly took him before he could finish the sentence, and Starsky sat back, shaken. What had he meant? It sounded... but he couldn’t have meant that, surely? And if he did,......He stood up to tuck the covers round Hutch’s shoulders and angle the light away from him, and stopped to study his friend’s face. Even now, hollow eyed, gaunt and an unattractive shade of white-tinged-with-green, he looked to Starsky wholly beautiful. To his horror, he felt his body responding, and sat down hastily, berating himself. What sort of a pervert gets a hard on over a man in Hutch’s condition? All those years of living in each other’s space and never a stir and his dick chose now to show an interest. Hastily, he picked up the book again, and read the next poem. Oh great, a poem about a funeral. He was going to skip it, when the last eight lines hit him in the chest and left him gasping. 

If Hutch had died. Usually he managed to avoid thinking about the possibility. Not thinking about things until they went away was a policy that had served him well for many years. But usually, the possibility of Hutch dying came and went in an instant. The bullet hit-or didn't, and that was it. Until the next time. These 3 weeks had been something different - the waiting, Hutch’s terrifying two day plummet from exuberant health to near death. The frenetic hunting. And then more waiting. And the knowledge,not expressed til now, that if he had died, as the poet said nothing would ever have come to any good again. Hutch was his noon, his midnight, his talk, his song. And he could not wait for him to be well again so he could tell him.

**Author's Note:**

> Funeral Blues
> 
> Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,  
> Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,  
> Silence the pianos and with muffled drum  
> Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. 
> 
> Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead  
> Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,  
> Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,  
> Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. 
> 
> He was my North, my South, my East and West,  
> My working week and my Sunday rest,  
> My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;  
> I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong. 
> 
> The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;  
> Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;  
> Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;  
> For nothing now can ever come to any good. 
> 
> W H Auden


End file.
